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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27453361">The Devil's Gambit</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smallheathen/pseuds/Smallheathen'>Smallheathen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Peaky Blinders (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Choking, Espionage, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, it's ambiguous if Tommy's married to Lizzie or not, this is set around season 5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:35:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,043</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27453361</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smallheathen/pseuds/Smallheathen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy Shelby is no stranger to doing the Prime Minister's dirty work. Now, Churchill has another task for him: find and execute a Russian mole who has infiltrated the Cabinet Office. Y/N works for the British government and is assigned to help Tommy with his mission to hunt down the traitor. A game of cat and mouse begins.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Reader, Tommy Shelby/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Devil's Gambit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The man is waiting on the Westminster Bridge as per the instructions he received in the telegram the night before. He’s on time, not a second late, the collar of his black woolen coat turned up against the arctic wind and gray sheeted rain.</p><p>Your heels click-clack over the wet cobblestone, your umbrella casting a shadow over the gas-lit pavement.</p><p>He doesn’t say anything when you join him at the railing. A barge sails down the river, waves lapping softly at the bow. It moves silently through the fog like Charon’s boat ferrying the dead into the underworld.</p><p>When it has passed under the bridge, you say, “a little dark to be watching boats, don’t you think, Mr. Shelby?”</p><p>Even mellowed by the yellow streetlight, his eyes are hard and speculative. Twin glaciers. “I didn’t think they allowed women in the Cabinet Office.”</p><p>Your hands flex around the umbrella’s wooden grip. “I didn’t think they allowed thugs into the House of Commons, and yet here we are,” you retort. “Evidently, the world is changing.”</p><p>“Very good, Miss…?”</p><p>“[Y/N] [Y/LN]. Did someone follow you here?”</p><p>He clears his throat. His voice has a husky scratch to it. Smoker. Right on cue, he takes out a cigarette tin. Dunhill. Expensive, but he can afford it.</p><p>“I’m always being followed these days,” he says on a long breath, and sticks one between his teeth without lighting it. There’s a glow on his cheekbones.</p><p>“We could have conducted this business in my office.”</p><p>“I’m afraid not. Your secretary is being paid to listen in on your conversations by three different MPs. Among them the Lord Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster. Mr. Churchill himself suggested this meeting place.”</p><p>“And he sends a prim little office mouse to handle the Birmingham racketeer, eh?” The thought seems to amuse him. “What’s that accent? Berkshire? Kent?”</p><p>“Surrey,” you admit, not sure why you’re divulging personal information to this man. Mr. Churchill warned you about Tommy Shelby. You read his file, your desk creaking under the weight of his folder. Or rather under the weight of the corpses piling up at his feet.</p><p>“I’ll get to the point.”</p><p>“By all means.”</p><p>“We’ve received credible information that there’s a Soviet spy hiding undercover in the Cabinet Office, siphoning intelligence to the Bolsheviks in Moscow.”</p><p>You stop, looking for a reaction. He gives you nothing.</p><p>“We conducted extensive background checks on everyone in the Prime Minister’s Office, and the only one with traceable ties to Russia is Minister Alexei Beltik. He has a great uncle in Novosibirsk. They’re in regular contact.”</p><p>Shelby runs his tongue between his teeth. “If you’ve already found the mole, what do you need me for?”</p><p>“Beltik is not an easy man to remove. He has close connections to Section D, the Odd Fellows. I understand you’ve had dealings with them before.”</p><p>“That was a long time ago,” he says in a clipped voice.</p><p>“Elections are coming up. Beltik’s killing can’t under any circumstances be traced back to the Prime Minister. It might affect his popularity with the voters.”</p><p>Shelby’s laugh is a cynical thing. “You fucking people…”</p><p>“You people?” Your eyebrow lifts. “Aren’t you one of us now, Mr. Shelby? I’ve listened to you speak in the House. Very rousing. You’ve become quite the nationalist since you joined forces with Oswald Mosley.”</p><p>“You sound disappointed,” he remarks, exhaling smoke. It’s immediately diffused by rain.</p><p>“Not at all. I think Mr. Churchill was right to choose you. Asking a man to kill another for England…well, at least, you’ll have your love of country to comfort you.” Reaching into your trench coat, you pull out an envelope, hold it out, staring at the rippling black water below. “Your invitation.”</p><p>He takes it after a beat. “What for?”</p><p>“A little get-together at Beltik’s townhouse on the Strand tomorrow. Very intimate. A hundred people, at most. Lots of familiar faces.”</p><p>“Are you going to be there too, Miss [Y/L/N]?”</p><p>Your lips curve despite yourself. “Pick me up at 8. Warwick Square.”</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>“Mr. Shelby, this is Alexei Beltik, the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State and Baron of Rotherhithe.” Your rouged lips curl into a smile as you introduce Shelby to the group of dough-faced Tories.</p><p>They shake hands like men.</p><p>“Shelby, good man!” Beltik booms and claps his back. He’s a soft looking man with small hands and a hairline that has receded to the back of his head. “My friend, Jarvis, and I were just wondering when the charming Miss [Y/L/N] here would introduce us. You know Jarvis from the House of Commons, of course.”</p><p>“Of course,” Shelby says, coolly calculating, and nods at Jarvis, who has the eyes of a cold-blooded reptile.</p><p>The arm that’s linked formally with yours goes taunt, muscles bunching beneath the expensive Italian suit. If his cut-throat reputation was in doubt until now, the way he looks at Jarvis leaves none. He’s the wolf in a room filled with fattened lambs.</p><p>Beltik slurps down his champagne, groping another crystal flute from the tray of a passing waiter.</p><p>“I’ve followed your career, Shelby,” he prattles in that self important way of a man who loves nothing more than the sound of his own voice; many of his kind to be found in Whitehall.</p><p>“You’re self-made. Unlike my peers in the House of Lords, I’ve always admired entrepreneurship in a man. Can’t help it. It’s in the blood. My mother was American.”</p><p>Beltik laughs and you can feel his warm, sweaty palm creep up your spine. A plunging back is all the rage in London. Your mother would have killed you for even looking at a dress like that.</p><p>Shelby’s icy gaze follows the path of Beltik’s hand like a surgical knife. He whips his head to you.</p><p>“Do you care for a dance, [Y/N]?” He interjects, ruthlessly shutting down Beltik’s attempts at roping him into a conversation about the Shelby Company.</p><p>“How did you know the one-step is my favorite? Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us.” You bat your lashes at Beltik and Jarvis to compensate for Shelby’s unapologetically frosty behavior.</p><p>“Join us in the billiard room later, old sport,” Beltik calls after Shelby as the latter takes your arm, and draws you away, cutting a path across the dance floor with agitation in his stride.</p><p>The jazz band is mid-set. It’s easy to get lost among the dancing pairs.</p><p>“He is your Russian spy?” He rumbles under his breath, pouring the contents of his untouched glass into a potted fern. “He was out of breath just from drinking champagne.”</p><p>“The more unlikely the disguise, the better the spy, Mr. Shelby. What did you expect? Fur caps and a hammer and sickle?” You whisper.</p><p>Now that you’re out of sight, the feel of his hand around your elbow, thumb pressed tight on that little joint, makes you dig your front teeth into your bottom lip.</p><p>You pick your way through the crowd until it’s thinned to few and far between stragglers—guests taking advantage of the dimly lit spaces between the window alcoves.</p><p>“We’ll start with the study. If he’s the traitor, there has to be evidence, a paper trail, somewhere in this house,” you say, watching out of the corner of your eyes as Shelby’s long, elegant fingers work on his bowtie. To any onlooker you must look like an amorous couple sneaking to an upstairs bedroom for privacy.</p><p>“And if we find what we’re looking for?”</p><p>“Then I hope you brought a silencer for that gun.”</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>“So predictable.” You click your tongue at the scantily clad woman posing on the cover and drop the magazine back into the drawer, hating how sticky your fingers feel.</p><p>“Found something?” Shelby asks from across the bedroom as he rifles through the papers strewn across Beltik’s heavy secretary desk.</p><p>“Nothing.” The most incriminating thing you found so far being his stash of racy magazines. “You?”</p><p>“He’s likely committing tax fraud and he’s paying large sums of money to his mistress’s apartments on Chester Square,” he intones flatly, and pushes away from the desk, face dark. “Maybe the information you were given is wrong.”</p><p>You shake your head. “Two men gave their lives to warn us to about that mole. No, we’re missing something.”</p><p>Suddenly, the clopping of approaching footsteps draws your gaze to the turning door knob. Seconds between you and the moment of discovery, your body makes the decision for you, gripping Shelby’s shoulders and fisting your hand into the collar at the scruff of his neck.</p><p>His mouth is hard against yours, and he exhales harshly as you ply his lips open.</p><p>You caught Tommy Shelby by surprise. Something that doesn’t happen too often judging by his reaction.</p><p>You have exactly one heartbeat to gloat because his hands go to your jaw, tilting your head to his liking so he can take whatever he wants. The warm, clean scent of his skin fills your head like clouds of opium—whiskey, smoke, black pepper and leather. Decadent. His tongue slides against yours and a heaviness settles between your legs. His thumbs smooth along your cheekbones to the corner of your eyes, tickling your lashes.</p><p>“Oh,” a voice squeaks. The young maid’s eyes are wide as saucers, and she’s holding onto the feather duster for dear life. You didn’t hear the door open for the loud drum of blood in your ears.</p><p>“I’m so sorry, Mr. Shelby, sir. I didn’t know anyone was in here. I—”</p><p>“Get out or I’ll have you reported.” His tone is deadly calm and authoritative. It makes your thighs clench.</p><p>The maid bobs a hurried curtsy and scampers off, the pitter-patter of her feet receding along the floor.</p><p>A laugh trickles out of you. “That was…close. You think she will tell?”</p><p>“She won’t,” he rasps, still looking at your mouth. The kiss jangles between the two of you like a fog of tension.</p><p>“She knew your name. Poor girl looked at you like you’re the Devil.” You’re still gripping the stiff, starched collar of his shirt, knuckles brushing his neck.</p><p>“Well, maybe I am. Does that scare you?” His eyes are heavy lidded. You definitely tasted whiskey on him.</p><p>“I have a theory about that.”</p><p>“Enlighten me.”</p><p>You run your palms up his firm torso. “My mother used to say that the Devil’s greatest gambit was convincing the rest of the world that he’s the only one. There are many devils on this earth, Mr. Shelby. Many of them are downstairs, right now. Much worse men than you. So, no, you don’t scare me.”</p><p>You place an open mouthed kiss on his throat. His Adam’s apple moves under your lips. The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a curse as he angles your head back by pulling his fingers through your hair.</p><p>He licks into your mouth, forces you to survive on his breath and tiny puffs of air stolen between kisses.</p><p>You press your hands on his chest and give him a little shove toward the bed, arms reaching around to unfasten the back of your dress. It peels down your curves and falls to the floor in a rustling cascade of beaded chiffon and sparkling sequins, leaving you in nothing but your Paris-bought lingerie.</p><p>Shelby is sat on the edge of bed like a king on his throne. His expression is almost bored if not for the way he’s leaning slightly forward, his index fingers drumming on his knee in anticipation as you step between his spread legs for his inspection.</p><p>Your heart is beating loudly in your chest, echoed by a twin pulse between your thighs. He grabs your wrist when you lift your arm to touch him, and pins it back at your side. The message is clear. No touching until he’s had his fill.</p><p>His hands are rough as they encase your rib cage—a working man’s hands callused by years of though physical labor and war. The roughened pads of his fingers brush your nipples peaking through your brassiere. The ivory-gold chantilly lace as delicate as the rime on a leaf.</p><p>You hold your breath as his hands travel down to your hips. The drag of the fabric on your heated skin is delicious. His fingers press into the dimples above your ass, thumbs stroking your hip bones. There’s something oddly tender about the gesture. He gets a faraway look in his eyes.</p><p>“Do you approve?” You purr, wriggling your hips in his grip. You know he does. Even in the semi-darkness of the room, you can see his erection clearly outlined against his suit trousers.</p><p>Fingers biting into the crease where your ass meets your thighs, he pulls you closer so his warm breath fans over your navel. He’s already stripped his jacket and removed his gun holster.</p><p>As you climb over him, you paw at the buttons of his shirt, peeling it apart, and tipping his lips open with yours.</p><p>Shelby roughly tugs the gusset of your knickers to the side. You sink down on him on a long exhale until your hips smash together. You bite your lip, crying out at the pleasure-pain, the pressure behind your navel almost too much.</p><p>He encourages you to move, find a rhythm that makes both of you pant. Your tits graze his bare chest as you ride him, rubbing the light dusting of hair covering his pectorals. You look down to watch his hand spread over your stomach and you fist the sheets to both sides of his head.</p><p>Sweat glistens on his cheekbones. He growls your name, seizes hold of your hips to grind against you and—he stills so abruptly, your forehead nearly knocks into his. He lifts his hand from your hip, revealing the small black butterfly inked there; the size of a two pence.</p><p>All the girls in the Cheka got them.</p><p>His gaze is liquid blue fire as it snaps to you, his expression almost enough to send you over the edge. He knows what it means. You can practically hear the gears in his head turn.</p><p>“You got me.” You smile and wrap small, lady-like hands around his throat. Lifting yourself off his cock, you pin his arm to the mattress with your knee, squeezing that particular pressure point in his neck that would make him lose consciousness in about five seconds. Killing him would be such a waste.</p><p>Shelby’s body bow’s off the bed as he fights to throw you off. You both wrestle for the gun on the other side of the bed, panting and grunting. The howling of trombone and saxophone downstairs drown out the sounds of your violent struggle. Pressing the heel of your palm under his jaw, you brutally force his head back into the pillow as you battle for the upper hand, for dominance.</p><p>One moment, it looks like you’re winning, the next, you’re pinned against the bed, and you feel the cold kiss of a barrel beneath your chin.</p><p>You gulp against the carbon steel, chest heaving. Show no fear. Lower your heart rate. One of the first things they taught you.</p><p>“Who told you about the tattoos?”</p><p>He ignores your casual question. Somehow he found his way between your legs again. “It’s you; the traitor.”</p><p>You roll your eyes. “Took you long enough. I was told you were the smartest man in England. Imagine my disappointment.”</p><p>His hand flattens over your sternum, applying enough pressure to make your bones ache. “You would have had me kill an innocent man.”</p><p>The laugh that rattles out of you is a cutting thing. “Innocent? We both know Beltik and his war-mongering posse downstairs are anything but. No matter what that fat fuck, Churchill, will have you believe, I’m not your enemy, Thomas Shelby.”</p><p>“Not my enemy, eh?” He snarls, cocking the gun with a harsh click that reverberates through your jawbone.</p><p>You kick your lips. “You won two medals in the war. A Seargant Major of the 179th Tunnelling Company.”</p><p>A muscle in his jaw ticks. “What does someone like you know of war? You’re too young.”</p><p>“I know that you had to bury many good men. I know that the men who send you straight into hell, kings and lords and politicians, are still alive, dancing and drinking champagne while the small man shovels their shit. Have you forgotten what that was like?”</p><p>“Shut up,” he says but there’s no conviction in it.</p><p>You reach up to run your thumb along the seam of his mouth, pressing between his lips until you can feel his teeth. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know about me before you fucked me. You knew the moment we were standing on that bridge. You could have shot me and dropped me into the fucking river right then and there; watched me dash my skull on a passing boat. But you didn’t. I think you wanted to see one of them finally get what they deserve. I think you want me to get away.”</p><p>He stares at you. Onetwothreefour—"Fuck.“</p><p>Leaning back against the upholstered headboard, gun in his hand, he looks up at the ceiling. He’s thinking. Plotting. Weighing his options. "Get dressed.”</p><p>You’re already scrambling off the bed and slipping on your dress. “What are you going to do?”</p><p>He doesn’t answer your question. “Consider this me giving you a head start,” he says when you’re at the door.</p><p>You give him the first real smile of the evening. “Do svidaniya, Mr. Shelby.”</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>Beltik’s bloated body is found by a foremen in the St. Pancras Basin, one month later. The press is elated. For weeks, the headline of every newspaper in the country reads Member of Parliament posthumously exposed as Russian spy.</p><p>Rumor has it, the King is considering Tommy Shelby for a CBE. He’s met with Churchill in London.</p><p>The whistle of an approaching train trills in your ears. You dispose the newspaper in the nearest bin and leave the waiting room, stepping out onto the platform.</p><p>“All passengers aboard! This is a train from Kings Cross to Birmingham,” a red-faced conductor shouts.</p><p>“Do you need help with your bags, Miss?” He offers.</p><p>“No need,” you tell him. “I’m traveling light.”</p>
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